In a lavish penthouse on a high rise building lives a guy named, Minho. It means brightness and goodness but his portrayal is the total opposite.

He is a brooding lad by day, vicious werewolf by night. Well not every night. Werewolves do not only turn on a full moon, neither do they have to. He can change his form and shapeshift at will whenever he wants to or if his thirst for blood grows unbearable.

Minho is fully aware of it. He knows how savage he is but has little up to no control over it. When in wolf form, his animal instincts overpowers him. His need to kill is driven by basic needs for food, when feeling a single threat, and a lack of identification with his prey.

At least that’s how he was brought up in Fenrir, his home planet. He learned what tastes nice and that ingestion takes away the hunger pangs. As a result, predators will continue to hone their hunting and killing skills to find such rewards.

When food source became alarmingly low that they started killing their own kind, Minho escaped to Earth, a planet that is wealthy in biodiversity, splendor, and beauty. He got no competition, he will never go hungry.

Not until that one night.

Unfortunately for him, your blood became a deadly addiction. He persistently craved and seek for you. He would scout the area where you first met, and would kill any passerby thinking it was your blood he will be sipping.

Mornings turned into withdrawals: killer palpitations, muscle tensions, tightness in the chest, a typical addict who didn’t have his personal dose of drug.

When he saw you at the park, he found himself under the shower of his bathroom, letting cold water trickle down his face to ease his boiling temper. He needed to calm himself or he will phase in a snap. ‘It’s her! I swear! I can feel it!’

Being a werewolf is a curse as it is already and turning into one is physically painful. Let alone dealing with it all by himself. No one’s there to comfort him. No one to take care of him if he gets wounded. Not even someone he can talk to. In fact, it was the first time in his existence that he smiled when you bumped into that pole.

Minho raised both hands and run his fingers from his jaw, up to his hair. ‘ this!’

He turned off the shower and slipped a towel from his waist down. He walked over to the counter top and stared at his reflection.

Well toned pecs, chiseled arms, perfectly shaped abs. The only reason it’s not deemed flawless are the battle scars, more like claws imprinted all over his chest. He flinched when his fingers touched it. ‘You’re pathetic Minho! You’re worthless You're nothing but a scum!’

“AARRRGGHHH!!!” he roared and his fist crashed on the mirror.

It was left hollowed and cracked almost near from shattering.

Blood dripped from his knuckles yet he can hardly feel anything.

Minho lowered his hand on the sink and let his blood drain with the running water. His cuts slowly closed and so did his eyes. ‘Calm down Minho…’

Your running figure came back to haunt him and that’s all it took to calm his nerves. A face that radiated through the sunlight, a hair that flowed with the wind.

He snapped out of his trance and went to his walk in closet.  ‘I need to find that girl whatever it takes!’

After putting together an effortless ensemble, Minho stood in front of a tall mirror. Black on black, attractive from head to toe.

‘This is decent enough I guess…’ he blew out an air.

Then left.